


the blood that binds

by rywaen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Bruises, M/M, Violence, commissioned by Pip, mentions of disease, mentions of hearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rywaen/pseuds/rywaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian is a vampire in hiding, hundreds of years old and has just transitioned from his life as the disgraced Lord Moran to Lord Moran's son, Sebastian Moran - a gun for hire. It's all going very well - being an assassin suits him but his new employer is clever. How long can Sebastian hide his true nature from Jim?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the blood that binds

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commissioned piece written for [Pip](http://fivepipsandflowers.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> Check out the notes at the bottom for any terms you might not recognize within the story.
> 
> You can always come hang out with me on my [tumblr](http://rywaen.tumblr.com) and find my commission info [here](http://rywaen.tumblr.com/commish+donation)!

“It would be best if you weren’t squeamish at the sight of blood.” It was laughable, the very thought of being squeamish because of a little blood. If anything, an opposing reaction to blood might get him in more trouble. Just the thought of it had him licking his lips, able to almost taste it on his tongue, rich and warm and sliding down his throat and filling him with the life he was stealing. _Fuck,_ he needed to eat. Laughable, yes. But the laugh stayed caught in his throat and he swallowed around it to force it to stay in place, just like his hunger. A smile came instead, turning up the corners of his lips just enough to seem both amused and menacing.

“Not a problem,” he murmured while looking the man in front of him over. Nothing at all what he was expecting. He’d been getting texts for weeks once he’d put out the news that he was looking for work.

Popularity was something that he had never expected to gain in all of his years, but his skills were unlike any other. There had been a time when he was no better than a child picking up a toy gun for the first time, but that had been long ago. Rigorous training on his own with the help of a harsh army regiment had beaten the green out of him and turned him purple, blue, and bloody with experience. No true army could take him now, not with his past lingering behind him, but his days of long ago in the army and his own ability to adapt to this new time and age had gotten him far. After all that hard work, how could he go and waste it chasing a life other than the one he was looking into joining now? A bit of showing off had been necessary to spread the word, but it did much better than handing out resumes.

And while being an assassin wasn’t the first thing that had come to mind when he decided that it was time to come out of hiding, he had to say that it suited him. He was no stranger to death or taking someone’s life. Blood soaked his hands and his tongue and it fueled his very life to take from others. Not even second nature, but first. Who better than him to take on such a career?

Perhaps his only disadvantage was his unfortunate need to stay out of direct sunlight.

Most of the jobs he’d been offered were more like security work than crime; uninspired, uninteresting, and unfortunately not what he was looking for. Emails and messages had been lighting up his phone and his computer on and off for weeks before he received a singular offer that had put pause to all offers for a full twenty four hours, as if everyone at once knew that he had received it. Perhaps they did.

‘Call when you’re tired of security work. –M’

That’s it. No details, no specific number to call, no time or date. Nothing but the singular line of text and the number it had come from, which he would have bet all his fortunes in the world that it was a throw-away mobile. He’d given it a shot a few days later, getting only a recorded message when he called back, telling him that his assumptions had been correct and the line had been disconnected. So much for that. But, not even a full minute after hanging up, he’d gotten another text.

‘134 George Street, London. Next Wednesday. 6pm. Room 1207. –M’

During the days in between, he had found out that there was a lot of chatter about the mysterious M. They had shown up out of nowhere one day a few years back, just a whisper and a single letter to go by name. A name that now could send chills down any criminal’s spine, whether they were just a back-alley conman or a high-end crimelord. Or lady, of course. No matter your age, race, gender, whathaveyou, the name M seemed to strike a chord no matter what.

That being said, not just anyone got a direct message from M, and even fewer lived to tell about denying the request to meet such a figure.

So, naturally, there he was, in some hotel suite that looked more like a full flat, standing in front of a thin man with wide-rimmed glasses, a graying comb over. The old man had hands that shook like leaves on a blustering autumn day as he wrote in ink on a contract that looked as if it had been printed on parchment, something he hadn’t seen in decades. He hadn’t looked up at him once since he’d entered the room, having been let in by a man slightly shorter than himself and looking to be no older than his late twenties. A rounded face with wide, dark eyes that suited him in ways that made him look young and full of life, and he gave their guest a cheery smile as he let him inside.

In this hotel suite that probably cost a fortune to stay in, the smiling man seemed out of place; like a piece taken from a different set of chess and placed in with another. Mismatched; new where the rest of it was old and worn, but expensive beyond a mortal’s wildest dreams. With his fitted jumper and slightly messily tied Windsor knot pulled away from his neck, he looked out of his element, yet trying his best to adapt to this new and frightening environment.

At some point, Sebastian realized that he was losing his hold on his train of thought, staring at the man in the jumper more than necessary, which caused his smile to turn shy and his eyes to turn towards the floor. Embarrassed. His heart rate had elevated slightly, he could hear it against his eardrums like the waves crashing inside the curves of a seashell. Though, for some reason, it was a fainter sound than most were.

The young man offered to take his coat and make them some tea while they spoke business, but Sebastian’s eyes immediately fell on the old man at the desk once he tore them away from him and his shy smile. This was M, was it? The mysterious man who had tempted him with just one line of text and an initial. The one that made thousands of men and women alike tremble at his name and glance over their shoulders to make sure that saying his name alone wouldn’t summon him like a demon would to blood and sacrifice. A ghost story, they called him. A being that was neither man nor woman, a figure created to simply scare those with less money, less power, less intelligence. Though still none would try to oppose M, for fear that the ghost story just happened to be more real than they wanted to believe.

Less like a ghost story, more like a ghost himself. Frail was his figure, tiny and withering away under the ill-fitting suit. Something that was most likely tailored for a much younger version of himself, the man he used to be. The ghost of whom he was residing in the same suit now, as if trying to make up for lost opportunities. Lost chances like whispered apologies falling on deaf ears.

Honestly, he looked the type to be sitting in a dusty library or in an old rocking chair by the fire rather than running a crime network that was expanding further across the world every day. He didn’t look as if he’d used a piece of technology other than a typewriter in his life, let alone a cell phone like what Sebastian had been contacted with.

Keen senses allowed Sebastian to taste the heavy acidity of fear radiating off of the man in waves, even from where he stood a few meters away. It was heady in the air, like copper and rust and sour like lemons on a hot summer day. Fear was a familiar taste on his tongue, something he had long ago familiarized himself with. But the presence of it here was all wrong.

“Sebastian Moran. Please, sit,” he had said, voice sounding just as unsteady as his hands, a hard swallow following close behind; swallowing around a lump in his throat, no doubt. No, this was not at all what he had been expecting. The infamous M was meant to be powerful and deadly enough to kill someone with just a nod, with thousands in his employ, even those who would not or could not say. Be it out of fear or respect, even those who might be closest to M would hold their tongues even if they were tortured for the rest of their lives, because it was said that the alternative was much worse.

The young man brought M his tea and met Sebastian’s eyes with a sort of thrilled excitement in his expression, as if it was truly his first day on the job and he hadn’t quite gotten used to dealing with criminals. The excitement not having left in place for fear, sleepless nights, and apathy yet. Poor boy would probably be killed within a week if he stayed in this business. Such a shame for his thick blood to be spilt instead of savored as it should have been.

Quick as he’d come, the man shuffled off after a fast, “Thank you, Andy,” came from M with his age-shriveled lips pressed to the rim of the cup and he sipped. Setting it down again with a rattle of china against china, he moved his attention back to the contract and cleared his throat.

“You are familiar with this line of work, so you should know the basics already. If you have any questions, feel free to ask,” he murmured pleasantly, albeit softly. _Pleasant_ was the last thing that M was expected to be.

Moran’s mind began to wander, focusing on the sound of the faint, fast heartbeat coming from M, the slow and calm and faint one behind him where the man, Andy as M had called him, was lingering.

As the old man continued listing off the requirements for the job, Sebastian couldn’t help but think that he was being set up. There was absolutely no way that this man could have been the real M, not when so many people were so convinced that the figure was a force to be reckoned with, just as his entire organization was. That wasn’t even taking the fact that next to no one had ever even met the real M before. Past and present state of being aside, what in the world made Sebastian Moran, of all people, so special?

As he sat and pondered this, he felt the prickling sensation of danger on his neck, something that he was proud to say he gave more often than he felt himself. Moving slow and keeping completely calm, he turned his head to look over his shoulder and saw Andy sitting on the back of the couch like a child. Smiling all the while, kicking his feet against the hard back of the sofa. _Thump, thump, thud-ump._ There was something in his wide dark eyes, even as he slid from the back of the couch and stumbled as he went to turn on a soft lull of music from the stereo.

Classical. Something slow and somber and symphonic. Building towards the crescendo like waves on the beach.

“…if you weren’t squeamish at the sight of blood,” M had said, drawing Sebastian’s attention back to him and he’d almost laughed aloud.

“Not a problem.”

“Good, well then, do you have any questions for me, Mr. Moran?” he asked, setting the pen down and clasping his shaking hands together as he finally looked up at him. Curiously enough, when he did the man looked incredibly frightened, keeping his eyes on him and keeping from moving much at all besides the constant shaking of his hands. He looked as if he had a gun pointed at his head. The stale tang of sweat filled Sebastian’s senses, the disgusting kind that usually came after a good hunt and his hunger clawed at his throat again like a neglected animal needing to be fed.

A man who was the head of an organization that’s main export was crime and murder should not look frightened when faced with a man he was looking into hiring. This, without a doubt, was not M.

“Just one,” he told him, M nodding his head in response, allowing him to continue. “I’d like to know why I’m not talking to the real M, and just who the fuck you might be.”

The old man looked as if he’d just been struck, his arms suddenly shaking just as much as his hands. The tremor moved up into his shoulders and Sebastian could practically hear his heart rattling around in his rib cage like a marble closed up in a wooden box. No, he _could_ hear it. The sound was echoing in his own head like it was his own heartbeat, yet he knew very well that it wasn’t.

“I-I’m afraid I don’t know what it is you’re talking about, Mr. Moran, but I can assure you—“

“Cut the shit. M contacted me using a throw away mobile phone. You’ve probably never used anything more than your grandkid’s laptop for five minutes before you threw in the towel and decided to stick with a pad and pen. The M I’ve heard of is a damned terrifying genius of a person, not an old man scared enough to wet his adult nappies.” He’d begun snarling at him at some point, the edges of his canines sharp with his hunger and his clear dislike of the man before him. That wasn’t the route he was trying to take, though. Besides, the younger man was still behind him, seemingly cowering in fear if the sounds of muffled sobs were to be taken seriously.

“So I’ll ask again. Who the fuck are you, and why am I not talking to M?” The tone he chose this time was somewhat more relaxed, yet the old man still recoiled even further back into his chair as if he’d been physically struck. His shaking hands rose up in surrender and he swallowed hard, looking as if he might start crying. No, he _had_ started crying, the wetness of his eyes and the salty sweetness in the air hit Sebastian’s tongue as if he’d tasted them directly.

“Pl-Please, sir, I didn’t mean –“ he began, only to be interrupted by a bullet piercing his skull and painting the window behind him with brain matter and blood. His eyes went blank with death, wide still in frozen fear even as he slumped down, dead on impact. The shot had come from directly next to Sebastian’s ear, the only thing saving his intensely sensitive hearing being the silencer attached to the end of the barrel, and even then his ear was ringing.

A sharp breath pulled in. He had barely heard anyone move behind him, let alone the cocking of a gun. That should have been impossible.

“Tsk tsk. What a shame,” a slow drawl came from behind him and Sebastian turned slow and steady to see the Andy behind him, carefree smile still in place as he looked down to catch Sebastian’s eye. “It’s going to take quite a while to clean up that mess.”

The same man who had been here the entire time. Who had been watching him from the start, who had looked so innocent and green through and through, no older than his twenties. Still a babe just beginning life compared to Sebastian’s own lifespan. The sense of a lingering danger that he’d felt, the soft muffled sounds that he’d mistaken for sobs. It was laughter, not crying that he had heard, muffled only by his lips pressed together as he stared at the old man. Laughing at _him_ , mocking him, possibly with his finger on the trigger the entire time.

“M.” It was only a breath, a realization that this had been a test and if he had been any less observant than he was, he might as well be the one with brain matter splattering across the window right then. His smile faded and he suddenly looked less like a man who might try to carve a similar smile into someone else’s face just for the fun of it and more like a normal human being.

“You are a man shrouded in mysteries, Moran,” he began, still smiling, “I admire that. But I don’t believe that such things are good for business.” A faint Irish lilt licked at the edges of his words as he slowly moved around the desk and slid the gun back into the holster at his back. When he got to where the corpse was, he just pulled the chair out enough to tip it to the side, the body off balance and sliding off with a _thump_ on the floor, M’s shoes making a wet _squelch_ ing sound as he stepped on the blood-soaked carpet.

Perching on the seat that had only just been occupied by a dead body, M’s sly smile still stayed trained on him as he set his arms on the desk with his fingers steepled. Eyes that were as dark as pools of bottomless water, filled with deadly monsters lurking just under the surface, shrouded by the dark murky colors that floated on top; they stayed fixed on him. It had been there the entire time, that dark depth staring at him, observing and laughing with mirth as he slid from one room to the next undetected.

The strong scent of blood was beginning to get to Sebastian. He was hungry, though he had eaten himself full the night before, had a light snack before coming to this meeting. Just as always, he would manage, but even the scent of dying blood was enough to make his insides roil with the beginnings of hunger.

“There are the basics, of course, that are all accounted for. Born in the country. High marks in the army until you were discharged. Came from a small, quiet family. Rather ordinary,” he drawled, listing things of as easy as you please. He had no cards to look at, no notes on him hidden away anywhere. M had simply memorized all there was to know about him.

“There was one thing, though. Funny that your family’s name seems to have a rather large gap in the middle, don’t you?” M asked, still sounding pleasant and keeping his voice airy. If he liked, he could read a bedtime story to a child to lull them to sleep with the same tone.  

It had only taken a moment more to shake off the surprise that had come with the ringing in his ear and a corpse where an old man used to be. The only thing still bothering him was that he hadn’t heard the man called ‘Andy’ doing anything out of the ordinary behind him.

“No, sir. Not particularly,” he replied, calm and unaffected by this subject. Yet, Sebastian was loath to admit that he hadn’t believed that anyone would look very closely at his family tree just for an interview. He had done all he could to create false identities along the line where he could, but the fact of the matter was that no one knew what exactly had happened to the late and disgraced Lord Baron Moran.

This, of course, was because Sebastian happened to _be_ Lord Moran. Not that _that_ was possible, seeing as Lord Baron Moran had lived over three hundred years prior.

Then again, family lines tend to get a bit tricky when you add in a dash of immortality.

The Moran family line had been split off into three branches three hundred years back; Lord Baron Augustus Moran, the family’s eldest and heir, Elizabeth Moran, and George Moran. Of the three Morans, Elizabeth had fallen ill with tuberculosis and died shortly thereafter. She had left no sons or daughters, no husband, just her two brothers and a ghost. Where she had provided light and love and warmth in the large family manor, there was only an echo of her to remain.

It was rumored that George had been murdered by his own brother in cold blood, found by the servants with his throat slashed open by what could only be described as animalistic jaws. There was never more than rumors that whispered of Augustus being the culprit, said to have sicced his hunting hounds on his brother after a quarrel over the estate. The dogs had been slain for the suspicion against them, but the Baron didn’t say a word about his own involvement of his brother’s death.

 Because of the lack of evidence or confession, he avoided prison but he would never again hold the trust of those who knew him or knew of him. Whispers would follow behind him wherever he went, clinging to his skin like weights pulling him deeper down so that he may drown in the murky waters of his sorrow. Eventually, he disappeared from polite society completely, hiding away in the Moran manor until his eventual demise that allegedly came when the manor was set aflame and everything was burnt to a crisp. Only the charred remains of his body had been found inside, the papers printing word of his death the next morning as if they had been waiting for the moment to come.

That was only the truth that the public had known and accepted to be true. His family had been disgraced and died out, but his family tree stated now otherwise. Where Elizabeth’s death date had been was etched out, and instead she had married to a wealthy Duke and moved with him to Ireland, where they started their own family away from the shame her brother had brought upon them. George’s death was just the same as it would forever be, just as Augustus had burnt up in the fire, but Sebastian Moran was supposedly a descendant from Elizabeth Moran, who had lived long into her full and happy life. It was the only redemption he could bring to his family, even if it was a lie.

Clearly, if M was already questioning his past, he was much smarter than those who were running the documentation and lineage offices, who had been convinced after only a stack or two of expertly forged documents.

His involvement with the army wasn’t recent as it stated in his files, but he had been a proud Colonel before he had been turned so long ago.

The only truths that were within his files were his birthplace and his skills that he wore now like he used to wear his rank and title, like a badge of honor. Something that he could be respected for. Something that he could be proud of himself for. Even if the rest of his lifespan was shrouded in lies and half-truths, his own abilities were never something he would fib about.

“Is that so? Not even a little bit odd to you?” he asked again, his head tilting slightly in a fluid motion and Sebastian was reminded of the image of a cobra eyeing its prey and swaying to and fro.

“No, sir. There had been a slight mix up with my family’s lineage within the system for a long time, but I recently was able to bring the true documents to light,” he explained, the lies spilling from his tongue like sweet honey venom. M was not the only dangerous man in this room.

Even from across the desk, there was a sense of intimacy that came with being so close to another dangerous presence like M. Senses still wild from the scent of blood and the smooth, calm rhythm of a heartbeat in his ears, smell his cologne even through the sharp iron tang of blood, practically taste it on his tongue.

It was so few and far in between that he found himself in the company of an intoxicating individual. There were those who were just lovely enough to follow home, to befriend and call upon during his times of need, but it had been years since his last companion. It was another time when he had taken someone to be his, another age entirely when whispers of what kind of beast he was were followed by excited stories of the legends being true. A select few knew; even fewer lived beyond finding out their curious fantasies were a reality.

M, if they had met under different circumstances, might have been one he would like to keep for himself. But he was better than his base instincts and longings had learned long ago how to keep them in check.

“Very well. Every man deserves to keep a few secrets to himself,” he drawled, sitting back just slightly once more to cross his legs and glance down at the body with disdain. Deft fingers grasped hold of the teacup that had been brought to him earlier and he tipped the amber liquid over the man’s body to pour it over him and soak into his clothes, mingle with his blood, and drip into the already stained carpet. “What a shame. I always prefer the poison rather than the bullet.”

Of course the tea had been poisoned. One way or another, the old man that had been standing in for him wouldn’t have left this hotel suite in anything more than a body bag.

 “So, what should I call you?” he asked, watching as he set the teacup down again and rolled his head in that same fluid motion once more and trained his eyes on him once again.  

“Boss will do fine,” was the clipped answer in reply, answering none of Sebastian’s many questions that he had piling up. “Or sir, since you’ve already begun calling me that. Before you’ve even got the job, too. How confident you must be.” A smirk and a wink.

“I meant your name, _boss_ ,” he clarified, making it a point to call him by the title that he had suggested. It wasn’t that he was against calling him by such titles, oh no. He just preferred having more than a letter attached to a man for a name unless it was completely necessary.

There was a pause and it looked to Sebastian as if M was considering whether or not he should tell him straight off. It honestly wouldn’t have surprised him if the man told him to guess what his name was, perhaps even at gunpoint. Such a situation brought a memory to surface; a story he himself had read when he was a child.

_'To-day I bake, to-morrow brew,_ _the next I'll have the young queen's child. Ha, glad am I that no one knew that Rumpelstiltskin I am styled.'_

“Jim Moriarty,” he finally answered, setting his elbow on the surface of the desk and he laid his chin atop his hand, looking quite bored as he continued staring at Sebastian. His gaze was and always had felt as if he was being observed rather than watched. An experiment in progress.

Nodding once, Sebastian licked his lips and ignored the tugging need to feed that pulled at the backs of his eyes. An hour had passed since he’d been let inside the room, the old nameless man having mostly filled the time with chatter and the sound of the scraping pen tip against paper. Paper that was what he had assumed to be his contract, but was now covered in a light misted spray of blood. An omen about his career, perhaps? “Am I safe to assume that I’ve got the job then, sir?”

A sharp silence trailed his question, Moriarty’s dark eyes cutting through him like a long sword being pushed through flesh agonizingly slow. Any hint of a jovial mood that had once danced along the features of his face were gone, looking more like he had just been offered a cup of tea with a dash of cyanide and expected to not be able to notice it.

“I would advise you to not assume things regarding me or my decisions in the future, Moran,” he warned, his tone even and controlled. His eyes drifted towards the door like a slow crawl along the wall when a knock sounded, the door swinging open and rattling on its hinges as a line of unidentifiable people followed one another in. Half of the group split apart to begin wiping down all of the available surfaces and clearing away any evidence that anyone may have left in the room. The other half immediately approached where they sat at the desk and begin cleaning up the mess of the body and brain matter.

It didn’t seem to matter that they were still talking business while the group cleaned up the slowly rotting mess around them. Just like furniture, they were ignored while the people went about their lives, doing exactly as they were told.

“But this time your assumption happens to be correct. Congratulations.”  

While there was no doubt in his mind that Sebastian was glad to have passed whatever possibly deadly test that Moriarty had set up for him, he also felt as if the man was reluctant to congratulate him. Something about the way his tone dipped down into an octave that rumbled and purred instead of just speaking. Or perhaps that was just how he was.

“Salary is per kill. You will work when, where, and how I want you to. Complaints or tedious questions will be ignored. Understood?” he asked, pausing for no more than half a second before he continued, giving Sebastian no time to even try and speak. “Good. Your first assignment is at five tomorrow morning. You’ll get the files on your way home.”

“I prefer the graveyard shift.” The look on Moriarty’s face was one of mixed emotions, his lips still parted as he’d been interrupted by Sebastian’s quip. A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly, something that might make him appear enraged, but the spark in his eyes told another tale entirely. Eyes that were bright beneath the dark pools of iris, a genius mind beneath them and a fierce thirst for knowledge. There was an aged aspect to them, as if the soul that resided in him was older than his physical body. Sebastian was one to be able to spot that aged look without fail.

“Is that so?” Suspicion and intrigue colored his words and gave them depth and he leaned forward, jumper that had seemed so fitting on him earlier looking so out of place now. This was the real M. This was the type of man who wore suits as sharp as Sebastian’s own teeth. This type of man did not wear jumpers to business meetings.

“Yeah.” A simple answer. Moriarty’s eyebrows drew together, perhaps from his answer - or lack thereof - or from the way one of the cleanup crew bumped into his chair as they began moving the body. His tongue slipped out between his lips, wetting them with a slow lick, head rolling ever so slightly to the side.

The words, biting and sharp and everything Moran wanted to show him that he could be, stayed on his lips, the silence stretching between them as Moriarty’s eyes landed on the corpse as they carried it out. They would still need to remove the carpet, clean the window, replace the chair their boss was sitting in, but they were clearly waiting for them to finish before they moved on with the rest. The sound of the door closing behind him and a slow intake of breath followed one another and had Moran’s eyes meeting Moriarty’s again.

“What makes you think that I would be willing to change your schedule just because you happen to _prefer_ something different?” he asked, eyebrow rising in genuine curiosity.

“You were willing to come meet me in person, even if you put someone else in that chair first. You want me to work for you, even if that means giving me the hours I want. Small sacrifices.”

Mere seconds ticked by before Moriarty was laughing, head thrown back enough to show that it was true, mirthful laughter. Whether he was laughing at him or at the truth of his words though was up for debate.

“You’re not that special, my dear. You’ll work when I tell you to work. Now, go home before I decide to shoot you too."

 

* * *

 

In the end, the choice to leave or not wasn’t entirely up to Sebastian. As soon as Moriarty wanted him out, the cleanup crew marched back inside and one of the larger men physically dragged Sebastian out of his chair and out the door. He could have fought back, could have ripped the man’s throat out and demanded that Moriarty let him work when he wanted to work. It could have been a bloodbath, one that could have quenched his thirst for days, staining every inch of him with the crimson lifeblood that he so craved.

He could have killed Moriarty like the rest of the crew, left him with a bullet in his forehead just like the old man that he killed without blinking. Or he could have drained him completely, felt the tug of death try and take him down as well, left him no more than a bloodless husk for the hotel staff to find.

But that honestly wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.

Sunlight, fortunately for him, was not a be-all, end-all weakness for him. Long sleeves, hoods, and specialized sunglasses did wonders to keep the sun’s rays from piercing too deep, not to mention the salves and protecting creams that were made specifically for him and other like-individuals that you could find if you knew where to look. Direct exposure would eventually kill him after time, but lying spread out in the shadows on roofs of high-rise buildings and tucked away in corners of stairwells wasn’t going to be the death of him.

In fact, the first week on the job, Moran had never felt more alive. In all of his years on this green earth, he had never felt better than he did with a rifle in his hand, his sights set on a target, finger on the trigger, and Moriarty’s sweet voice in his ear. He spoke to him directly sometimes, sultry and smooth as you please when he called in for a mission report. Other times, he would simply hear him on the private radio, scolding someone or announcing a job well done.

Blood spilt by his finger on a trigger felt almost as good as it did when it hit his tongue and slid like liquid fire down his throat. His new favorite thing to do was to immediately feed after a kill. Once, at the start of his second week, he had been found on the roof by a security guard coming to investigate a noise just as he was leaving. Careful, as always, he called the cleanup crew to take care of the extra body afterwards; bite marks on the man’s throat hidden by a clean cut with his blade.

Teeth stained red and belly full, rifle on his back, he couldn’t decide what was better – getting this job as easy as pie or knowing that he would fully be able to do this for the rest of his immortal life.

After a week, he had already made more money than he would need for the next decade, but it wasn’t about the money. It had never been about the money. Money and possessions were nothing to someone who had seen centuries go by, and his meager flat in the crowded city made that clear enough.

No, it was about the blood for him, only ever the blood. Blood before companionship, before belongings, before everything. Without blood, there was no life, and without life, there was darkness that he had seen himself one too many times. He had let that dark call of death tug on his heart one too many times, had almost followed countless victims into the abyss.

But each and every time, he shook himself out of it, hadn’t let the blood take him down, take him out of this world before his time was up. Before he could see all that he wished to see.

Blood was where he set his sights, and it was all too easy to obtain it in his new line of work. Even without the occasional wandering witness, Sebastian could have easily asked to be put on more hand-to-hand assassinations. At the start of his second month on the job, he did. There were no needling questions asked, just a simple request form to be filled out and sent to Moriarty for approval.

As it passed from his hands to someone else’s, he went out and finished his job for the day, reporting in with an uninterrupted kill streak of at least one perfectly executed kill a day. By the time he returned home, a simple reply to his request had been slipped under his front door by way of a new case file.

The file detailed a job that required up close and personal attention, even going so far as to not having just a cleanup crew, but a staging crew. Just what he had requested. This job was about the media getting hold of it, calling it the work of a mass murderer or a serial killer, whichever they preferred to think up a story for. It was the planting of a seed, not just snuffing out a life.

The target himself was said to be entirely unspectacular, just a type that fit the necessary requirements, a pawn, and a lamb led to slaughter.

A picture of the target had been included with the file and he could see for himself that he was entirely ordinary. It was unclear to him if it was intentional or not, but the man’s features reminded him strongly of Moriarty himself. He was in his late twenties, dark hair and eyes, a face that looked as if it hadn’t stopped smiling since the moment he had been born. That was where the similarities stopped. James Moriarty smiled, yes, but not nearly as often as it seemed that the target did. Laugh lines already accented the corners of his eyes, a slight crease in his cheeks as well, and he was even smiling in the picture that they had chosen.

Perhaps it was a test, to see if he could kill up close, even when it was someone who seemed as jovial as they could come. If that was the case, then Moriarty would be sorely disappointed if he expected him to fail.

Sebastian spend the rest of the evening gazing at the man’s face, reading over who he was, imagining how it would be when they finally met face to face. To tell the truth, he wanted to remember absolutely everything he could about this kill. He would be his first up-close kill on the record while working for Moriarty, after all. Something special would have to be in order.

A smile slid onto his lips even as he decided to skip his evening meal.

 

* * *

 

Despite looking as if a strong wind could knock him flat, the target put up a good enough fight to make Sebastian break into a light sweat by the time he went limp in his arms. The scuffle took place in the dark alley beside the gutted apartment building that had been chosen as his kill site. A point just a few blocks away from the man’s usual route to and from his point of work, which was a simple desk job where he held an unimportant title and worked with people that most likely had never said anything more than a simple ‘Hello’ to him.

The target, that both the file and his wallet confirmed to be Thomas Killian, had managed to land a few good hits and scratches in while Sebastian put him in a choke hold. They would heal up fast enough for no one to be the wiser, but for now the ache that came from the bruise on his cheek matched the ache scratching at his throat.

It was always equal amounts of torture and bliss when he skipped meals, making the wait worthwhile yet maddening beyond belief. It took quite a lot of self-control to keep from sinking his teeth into the man’s carotid artery right then and there in the alley.

Yet, if there was one thing that Sebastian Moran could pride himself on, it was his patience.

As soon as the target’s legs stopped twitching and his hands fell away from grasping his arm, his entire body having gone limp, Sebastian moved with precision and strength. Hauling Killian over his shoulder like a sack of flour, he moved towards the nearby door with a sureness in his step that came from knowing the plan backwards and forwards.

He was damn good at his job. Nothing would change that. Even if this ended up being some sort of twisted test by the end of it all, nothing in the world could make anyone say a word against Sebastian Moran’s skills.

Two floors up, a singular chair welded to the floor was waiting for him, as well as an array of supplies laid out for him on the nearby table. He’d set the site up beforehand, arriving over an hour early just to make sure that nothing went wrong. Everything would be perfect from start to finish, he had spent more than enough time and effort making sure of that.

There was a thought nagging at the back of his mind; it had been there since he first got the idea into his head to ask for a bit of a different set up. What was he trying to prove? He certainly didn’t need to validate his skills for his own benefit, and Moriarty wouldn’t have hired him if he had any doubt about his skills. So, what was the point of all of this?

To be frank, he just didn’t know. In the end, the job was well under-way and it didn’t matter. Come what may, Thomas Killian was going to die this day, and Sebastian would be the one to hand him off to darling Death.

When he was set down in the chair, Killian’s body slipped down into a slouch, his dead weight unable to keep a straight spine. He stayed slouched with his head lolling backwards until Sebastian righted him and secured his spine to the back of the chair with expert knots in rope and tightly wrapped duct tape. Truthfully, he preferred a struggle. Liked to hear their pleas, feel their hands and nails against his skin, trying with all their might to both push him away and draw him closer. But this wasn’t about him or his preferences. He had orders, after all.

After one last check to make sure everything was in place, he pushed his hand through his hair and stepped close to Thomas Killian, tongue sliding over his bottom lip as he pressed the edge of his blade to his skin. It pressed in just hard enough to break the skin and let a thin line of blood bead down his pale skin, soaking into the pressed white cotton of his dress shirt.

The pain triggered a response in the man’s brain, his eyes opening slowly at first as he blinked at his surrounds. As soon as he caught sight of the predator before him, his whole body jerked and his eyes flew open the rest of the way, pupils dilated and wide as he tried to shout at the shock, the sound muffled by the duct tape over his mouth and the rag stuffed in behind it.

“Now, now, Tommy. That’s not how you say hello,” he purred, leaning in close and shifting his steel blue gaze from the line of crimson on his skin to his frightened eyes. The poor boy looked as if he was on the verge of tears already; though if anyone had the right, it was certainly him.

If he had a soul – and the fact of the matter was that it was debatable – he just might have felt bad.

“Nothing personal, Tommy-boy. Not that I’m aware of, that is,” he mused, focusing his attention on the man’s shirt and cutting it right down the middle to get rid of the buttons one by one. Killian’s breathing got heavier and faster the further down he went, his head shaking viciously, tremors making his skin twitch. “Orders are orders, after all, and you just happen to be the first he chose. No hard feelings.”

A brilliant, toothy smile split across his face as Killian’s terrified eyes met his once more. Sebastian’s fangs had already elongated, now on display for his victim to see. With a pained whine and tears streaming down his face as he struggled against his bonds, he had time to shake his head once more before Moran leaned in and his teeth pierced flesh. In the same moment, the knife slid into his gut at an angle, hot blood spilling down his front as it coated Sebastian’s tongue and slid down his throat. Killian’s scream turned into a sobbing groan of pain, mixing with a noise of absolute pleasure that shivered down Moran’s spine.

Swallowing him down, he slid the blade up in the angle it was pointed, the groan of pain from Killian turning into another gurgled, muted scream as he pulled the blade out and did it again, this time angled in the opposite direction. The blood was pooling at their feet and splashing against Sebastian’s clothes, coating him in a light spray of crimson, the same color dripping down his chin as he readjusted his lips against his throat, eyes slipping shut as he worked.

The sound of his frantic heartbeat was like a war drum in his ears, making his own slow, barely-there pulse speed up and thunder in his ribcage like a thousand feet slamming against the harsh ground; armies charging for battle in his chest. _Alive_.

Almost as quick as he’d started, he had to pull away; chin and teeth and tongue all painted red, his eyes dilated and his cheeks flushed as he finished the final slide of the knife in Killian’s gut. If he hadn’t been met with sweet lady Death yet, he would be within seconds. The sound of Killian’s pulse was slowing to what his own usually sounded like in his ears, faint enough to barely be beating. A thin stream of blood mixed with saliva slipped out from under the duct tape over his lips, his eyes at half-mast and already fogged over with the approaching hand of death that would take him without mercy.

For a few seconds, he allowed himself to step back and admire his handiwork. Blood still dripped from his chin, the bloodied knife still clutched in his hand, but he allowed himself a deep breath and a moment to himself.

The scent of blood that had already permeated the air would soon soak into the walls and stay there like a scourge. His screams and sobs had been muted, but they still played like a repeating record in his mind.

It was, for lack of a better word, _beautiful_.

But Sebastian’s job wasn’t done. The fun part may have come and gone, but he still had quite a bit of work ahead of him. First thing came first, he slid the blade into Killian’s throat, effectively hiding the marks left by his fangs with the thin cut of the blade severing the carotid artery completely and letting blood slide down the already stained canvas that was his throat. Killian barely responded at all, the additional pain only making his body twitch in a last-ditch effort to fight back.

Bathed in blood and heart beating hard in his chest, Moran glided over to the table, bloodying it with his stained hands. The cleanup crew would be here as soon as he was done; most likely sitting in an unmarked van a block down just waiting for him to send the text letting them know the job was finished. No evidence would be left behind besides the body and the blood belonging to one Thomas Killian.

For a few brief seconds, his head felt as if he was spinning, vertigo making him submit to the need of hunching over the table with his weight pressed down against the surface. Drinking so much after going so long without feeding – approximately two days and thirteen hours – was less than ideal for any of his kind.

But the spinning stopped almost as fast as it had begun and he felt grounded instead; his feet planted hard on the floor, his scuffed boots feeling as if they were as solid against the floor as the chair that held Killian’s corpse. There was nothing quite like feeling warm, strong, and _alive_ again.

A deep breath pulled in and he felt as calm as the smooth waves during low tide.

Pushing away from the table again, he went back to the unblinking corpse that was now Thomas Killian and he began undoing the bonds tying him to the chair. No need for them anymore. He spread the man’s legs and let his arms and head hang over the straight back of the chair, his spine arching as Sebastian secured him with just the slightest amount of rope necessary. Even this was in the instructions and he wasn’t to deviate from it even in the smallest of ways.

In the end, the man looked as if he was experiencing a moment of euphoria even as his gut was split open and his blood still leaking out of him, pooling on the tiled floor beneath him, eyes wide open in undying terror.

It was done. The rest was left up to the teams that would come in as soon as Sebastian gave the word, which was done with a simple text sent as he moved to the bathroom to clean himself up and change into a set of clothes that weren’t soaked with a dead man’s blood. There were plenty of things you could do on a busy London street without people paying you much mind, but being covered in blood wasn’t something one could get away with very easily.

As he washed off his face, the sink turning a light pink color from the swirling stream of water pooling in the basin, he kept his gaze on the mirror where he could watch the front door in the reflection as he left the bathroom door open. The moment it opened and the two groups of people came in to work, he turned his attention to changing into his second set of clothes, finally closing the door and briefly wondering if he had time to take a shower.

Even before the door had shut completely, Sebastian practically screamed when he realized he wasn’t the only one in the bathroom.

“My, my, Moran,” James Fucking Moriarty purred as he looked him over. Bloody _purred_. “You definitely are one to get your hands dirty.”

His immediate instinct was to attack the infuriating man, ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing there and just _how long_ he had been there. Not to mention _why_? It had been two months since he started; clearly he had to have started trusting him to get the job done without supervision somewhere along the way.

But this was his boss, he reminded himself. His boss that had killed people for less than yelling at him, and having someone even attempt to kill him was not something that Sebastian needed to deal with.

“Boss. Gotta say I’m surprised to see you here,” he said instead of the screams and shouts and growls he had immediately wanted to say. Instead, he just turned and kept his eyes on his reflection – because thank _fuck_ that myth wasn’t true, not for him at least – and he wiped at his mouth once more for good measure before pulling his shirt over his head and stuffing it in his emptied bag.

Moriarty had the gall to just hum at first, as if that was an answer, and he walked over to sit on the closed toilet seat with a few slow _tap, tap, taps_ of his expensive leather shoes on the tile.

“I had a feeling I would want to see the results of this kill of yours. It was your first close-quarters kill for me, after all,” he explained, gazing at his own nails, which he would have bet at least ten thousand quid were manicured.

“Right. Well, the body’s out there if you want to see it,” he murmured, gesturing towards the door as he wiped off his collarbone with his wet cloth, trying to ignore the fact that Moriarty clearly knew that the body would be out in the main area, not in the bathroom.

“Not quite what I’m here for,” he hummed, confirming Sebastian’s suspicions. Great. Wonderful.

“So you’re here to see _me_ , then.” A huff and he pulled on his clean shirt, not even pausing to consider whether or not he should strip in front of his boss, just toeing off his bloodstained boots and then shucking off his trousers before pulling on the clean pair. That dark gaze wasn’t leaving his body; he could feel it on him like needles jabbing into his skin.

What truly was setting him on edge was the fact that he hadn’t noticed that Moriarty was there. Just like when he had strolled in and out of rooms in the hotel suite when they had first met, if he heard him at all, it was only when he focused to try and hear him.

Sebastian’s senses were far superior to a mortal’s in every sense; he could hear heartbeats in his head as if his ear was pressed to someone’s ribcage, even if he was meters away from them, could taste blood in the air as if it was on his tongue already. But try as he might, he couldn’t figure out why Moriarty could practically disappear from him when he wanted to.

There was no way that he was like him. Sebastian had already considered this as a possibility, and had ruled it out almost immediately after the thought first struck him. He could clearly see color in his cheeks every time they had met face to face – which, admittedly had only been twice including this meeting – and he could hear his heartbeat as clear as day when he listened for it.

The problem was that he had to _listen_ for it, as if the man’s heart was barely beating at all.

Perhaps there was some unearthly quality to James Moriarty that he couldn’t pinpoint; and that was unequivocally terrifying, even to someone like him.

“How perceptive, Sebastian.” His tone was, quite frankly, condescending beyond belief. A quick glance at him and he could see that Moriarty’s expression was just as neutral as always, the tone of his voice be damned.

And yet, there was nothing he could do about it except _take it_.

He enjoyed the job, he truly did, and he had technically pledged his loyalty to this man. Loyalty, to him, was not just a thing to throw around like a toy that could be used up by anyone who wished to give it a go. No, it was something to be taken seriously, and his loyalty to this man meant that he would take whatever he needed to under his command. Even if he was speaking to a man that was centuries old as if he were an annoying child.

“I find it funny that you got as much blood on yourself as you did. Tell me, did you have a roll-around in it just for the hell of it? Get off on it, do you?” he cooed, making Sebastian’s eyes narrow and he drew in a deep breath so that he didn’t say something he might regret.

“No sir, just an occupational hazard.”

“Occupational hazard,” he repeated, contemplating the words. “I assume you think that explains it all away.”

“It should, sir, there is no other reason for it.”

“You also packed a second set. Were you planning on getting coated in his blood?”

“I’m not sure how someone expects to go into a kill such as this and not be ready for getting covered in blood, sir. It was merely a precaution, nothing more.”

Just like that, Moriarty seemed to shut his mouth, lips pressing into a thin line as he watched Sebastian finish straightening out his clothes and pull on his second pair of boots. Clearly, he thought that he was onto something. If he had known for a fact what it was about Sebastian that set him apart from everyone else, he would have just come out and said it. Moriarty was not the type to beat around the bush when he didn’t need to. Finding out that an employee is an immortal monster from horror stories would give one plenty of reason to just get out with it.

“Is that all, boss?” he asked, a hint of bite in his tone as he stood up straight with his duffle bag in hand and a bored glance cast Moriarty’s way.

“I suppose so, yes.”

Taking that as an excuse to leave, Sebastian crossed the small bathroom and pushed the window open with one hand. His bag was the first thing he dropped onto the rickety fire escape, pausing for a moment to go open the bathroom door once more so that the crew could wipe everything down inside after he left. Then, one foot after another and ducking down just enough, he climbed out onto the fire escape and started down the stairs.

Footsteps behind him told him that Jim was following, making Sebastian roll his eyes and drop down when he got to the ladder, making a cloud of dust rise up around him as his feet hit the dirty alley hard.

The alley itself was dark, but the sun was shining through the clouds on the street, so he pulled his hood up on his jacket and shoved his hands into his pockets. It wasn’t like it would kill him, but dealing with accidental burns wasn’t ideal.

A hand slipped over the curve of his covered forearm and he looked down, shocked. It was Jim, because who else would it be, with one hand gripping Sebastian’s arm and one with his phone cradled in his palm as he typed with his thumb.

“Uh—“

“Walk, Moran. We’re going to have a chat.”

He does as he’s told, but Jim doesn’t speak. Just casually tugs on his arm to direct him as they walk, making their point of origin unknown until they finally get there.

It’s not dark enough yet to be busy, but it’s the location of one of the few secretive bars in the city for the undead like himself. As soon as he recognizes it, Sebastian’s immediate reaction is to grab Moriarty by the lapels of his coat and attack, but he doesn’t move. Perhaps _this_ is the test?

“What do you think of this place?”

“Looks like some sorta fancy nightclub,” he answers with an indifferent sniff, shifting from one foot to the next but still not pulling away from Jim’s hand on his arm.

“You’re right. It is. For a certain type of people,” he explained and Sebastian heard the wet sound of Jim licking his lips, knowing what the motion looked like without even having to watch.

“What like a gay bar?”

“Not even close. In fact, this type of club is for someone who doesn’t follow nature’s rules in an entirely supernatural sort of way.”

So, he did know. This wasn’t just a test, this was a goddamned confrontation. He couldn’t help but tense up just slightly, getting ready to attack. It would be a shame, losing this job after it all had been going so well. He’d even made sure to follow the inane rules this time around. What a waste.

“All I have to say, Sebastian, is that _immortality_ is _cheating_.”

There was a sharp sense of panic that shot through him when he suddenly heard someone else nearby, a slow and steady heartbeat besides the one in his own chest, still swelled full with Killian’s blood. He twisted out of Moriarty’s grasp, aiming to attack whomever it was that had snuck up behind him, but he never got the chance.

With a loud crack against his skull, everything went black.

 

* * *

 

The light was harsh on his eyes when he finally awoke, squinting as his heart jumped up into his throat, momentarily fearful that it was the sunlight shining directly on his exposed skin. There was no sensation of burning, just the dull throb in the back of his skull and the smell of his own blood in the air.

“Now, see, I did warn you that I didn’t think that mysterious men were good for business,” Moriarty’s familiar Irish drawl swam around him and he groaned, head tipping forward in defeat.

Hands bound with iron shackles, Sebastian was chained to a chair, not unlike the one that he had killed Thomas Killian in just a few hours beforehand. Or was it longer than a few hours? He had no way of knowing exactly how long it had been, as the curtains on the windows were drawn shut and only a soft lamplight illuminated the room they were in.

It looked to be a library or a sitting room, oddly enough, seeing as he had expected to wake up in a dark basement with chains or a cell with a torture chamber just down the hall. Then again, he hadn’t done anything wrong, he just hadn’t told Jim the truth about himself.

“Fuck—“

“Ah ah,” Moriarty immediately interrupted him, not allowing him to get more than a singular word out. “You shouldn’t insult your gracious host, Moran. I would call you Sebastian, but that’s clearly not your name.”

The sound of paper rustling got him to look up again, now finding James Moriarty to be standing in front of him, his family tree in hand – an unedited one.

“That _is_ my name,” he croaked, clearing his throat and swallowing to try and not sound quite as pathetic this time around.

“Oh, but we both know that’s not quite true, is it?” he asked, clicking his tongue as he looked over the old parchment. “Augustus Moran,” a hum, “I don’t quite like it as much as Sebastian.”

“What do you want?”

“Knowledge.”

Simple answer, but it made Sebastian look up at him, confused. If he had just wanted knowledge, of all things, why the fuck would he literally chain him up to a chair in the middle of what looked to be his sitting room.

“Fantastic. I meant what do you want from _me?_ ”

“A multitude of things,” he began, letting the parchment drop from his hand and he instead stepped closer, then straddling Sebastian’s legs as he sat chained to the chair. “Tell me, are the myths true?”

Of course. Sebastian let his head hang backwards for a moment, wishing that he could get out of this chair, get out of here. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to another mortal who was fascinated by the myths. Honestly, he wouldn’t have pegged Moriarty of all people to be someone to enjoy listening to such drivel, but apparently he was wrong.

“Which ones?”

“That you can transform a mortal into an immortal.”

“Yeah, I was turned, so—“

“What do you need to do?”

Sebastian gave him an unimpressed look, not understanding why this was so important to him. If he wanted to ask him about this shit, he certainly didn’t need to knock him out and then tie him up just to _gush_.

“Bite, exchange blood, that sort of shit. Why?”

“Hm,” Jim hummed, still straddling his legs, and Sebastian suddenly realized that he wasn’t in a suit as he usually was around him. He was in a pair of soft pajama pants and a fitted t-shirt, the clothes making him seem to have more rounded edges rather than sharp, flat lines. It made him look younger than he probably was. Tired eyes watched as the Great and Feared Moriarty reached up and rubbed at the skin over his heart, the sound in Sebastian’s ears sounding just as faint and slow as it always did.

It, somehow, only just then dawned on why.

Nothing about James Moriarty was supernatural, only the facts that he was the most dangerous man in London, and his barely there heartbeat. One had nothing to do with the other, but they both had everything to do with why he was currently sat on Sebastian’s legs and asking him these things. Demanding answers.

“What’s wrong with your heart?” he asked, voice softer than he had meant for it to be, and even with his tone being light and curious, Jim still startled.

For a split second, he looked as if he was going to deny that he was weak, that he had a physical issue with himself that he couldn’t fix. The most powerful man in the city, maybe the country, maybe even the world; and he had a heart defect.

“Bradycardia and aortic valve regurgitation,” he murmured, the expression on his face dying into one of not defense, but of acceptance. Lying would only prove to make things harder in their situation, seeing as Jim was now looking to Sebastian not just as an employee to depend on, but possibly a cure.

And while he was not a medical expert of any kind, Sebastian knew that things like what Jim was describing had to be bad. They were bad enough for him to seek out a cure in forms that weren’t medical, whatever his reasons may be.

“How did you know?” he asked, his voice just as soft as Sebastian’s own had been.

“I can barely hear it. Your heartbeat,” he explained, swallowing once as Jim gave him a skeptical look. “My senses are all much better than yours. Hearing and sight, being the best. Your heartbeat is so faint that I thought you might be like myself when we first met.”

 There was, of course, no point in denying the fact that he wasn’t mortal any longer. Physical issues and insecurity be damned, James Moriarty was still a genius, and Sebastian wouldn’t have put it past him to have figured out exactly what he was from the start. In fact, he was almost certain that he had known; he had been the one to bring up the fact that he was a man shrouded in mysteries, after all.

“So, you want me to turn you. Fix your heart problems by getting rid of them altogether?” he asked, though he wasn’t at all sure if his vampirism could go so far as to cure something that had been there from the start.

“That is the idea, yes,” Moriarty told him with a huff of annoyance, as if he should have gotten the picture already.

“I can’t promise you—“

“Do you honestly think I care?”

“You care enough to shackle me to a chair and demand to know answers about what I am and how I can turn someone else into the same sort of beast,” he countered, making Jim frown.

“So long as it works. Nothing else matters.”

With a frown, Sebastian met Jim’s red rimmed eyes, the dark circles prominent enough to tell him that the man perched on his legs hadn’t slept in what were most likely days. He had noticed them before, the way the color of his iris practically matched the color surrounding his eyes and setting them further into his skull, but now they were prominent in a way they had never been before. It was the desperation in his gaze.

This man, who could probably fix anything else in his life, who fixed people’s problems for a living, criminal activity involved or otherwise; he couldn’t do a thing to fix his own defective heart.

And while Sebastian had been working for him for over two months at this point, he certainly couldn’t say that they had gotten close in that time. He had seen Moriarty in person a grand total of perhaps ten times within the first time they had met and now. He didn’t feel anything more than loyalty towards him, and that was mostly because he could admire his intelligence as well as acknowledge that he signed his paychecks.

Even then, he felt as if that alone gave him the obligation to help him if he could. To give him what he desired. And honestly, if that meant that he could truly continue doing this job for the rest of his unending days, well, he wasn’t going to turn down such an opportunity.

“Alright,” he agreed, a grin splitting Jim’s face in half, “but you have to let my hands free first.”

“Last I checked you bite someone with your teeth, not your hands, Moran. We do this my way. I’m still your boss.”

“Boss, you’re going to want me to—“

“Moran, bite me.”

“Jim—“

“Do it!”

Without waiting, Jim leaned in with his chin tilted up; pressing Sebastian’s lips to his throat and the vampire opened his mouth and sank his fangs in. Moriarty’s hands were at the vampire’s throat as well, gripping at his skin hard enough to leave bruises as he began drinking from him. Feeling each swallow as it went down Sebastian’s throat, he shuddered and let his eyes slip shut as he felt his heart begin to speed up out of panic.

In the same moment, Sebastian relished the taste of him on his tongue, clinging to him with just his lips and his tongue, the angle making blood slide down from between his lips. He had only turned two others in his life, both of whom had left him soon after, desperate to find their own way in the unending expanse of time they had left. A soft thought in the back of his mind allowed him to hope that Jim wouldn’t end up being the same.

Though he had just fed from Killian hours (days?) before, it still felt as if drinking from Jim was as sweet as ambrosia, his life force filling him and making him feel more alive than ever before.

If a moan escaped from his lips while he drank, he certainly wouldn’t have been ashamed to admit it.

Feeling Jim’s body beginning to slump against his own, his fingers at his throat not pressing quite as hard, he drew back and nudged at him as he bit deep into his own lip. As soon as he had gotten the nearly-drained man’s attention, he leaned in to press their lips together, blood spilling between the two of them, a river of crimson.

It was a kiss first, lasting a few stretched seconds until Jim’s lips caught hold of his lower one and found the deep cut he had made in his own flesh, drinking from it with a renewed fervor that had caught him off-guard like a landslide.

As soon as he had taken all he could get from Sebastian’s lips, he left a trail of bloodied kisses down the pale expanse of his throat, ending at his own carotid artery and using his not-quite sharpened teeth to rip open his skin and lap at the blood that sprayed across his face, Sebastian’s scream fading into a low moan as he felt him drawing the blood from him and tugging at his soul with every deep swallow.

Hearts beat in unison, both strong and stable as Jim pressed them together, his fingers leaving bruising marks on every inch of Sebastian’s bare flesh that he could reach. Moriarty wriggled in his lap and dug his nails into his flesh, sucking hard at the blood that spilt from his torn flesh as he threatened to drink Sebastian dry.

“Jim—“ he gasped, unable to push him away as he curled himself even closer to the source of blood, Sebastian’s own hands still trapped against the sides of the chair. “Jim, stop!”

Whether it was from the pounding of blood in his ears or that he simply just chose not to hear him, Jim continued drinking from him as if he were the only water to be found in miles of desert. Sebastian could feel each tug as he swallowed, his head feeling fuzzy and vertigo began to take over, his entire body reacting violently to the feeling of death all over again.

In a last-ditch effort to get Jim to stop before he ended up killing him, he shoved hard at the floor with his feet, tipping the chair they were both in backwards. As they fell, Jim pulled away from his throat with a gasp and Sebastian took the brunt of the impact with the back of his already battered skull and his tailbone.

A groan fell from his lips as Jim’s weight settled on top of him as well, crushing his organs as he felt him wriggle on top of him until finally getting up.

“What the fuck?!” he shouted, blood staining his chin and teeth as he gripped the coffee table nearby, his limbs weak from the ongoing transformation that was going to hit him like a tidal wave during a typhoon in a matter of moments.

“You were taking too much,” he grumbled, “Unlock my hands, you’re going to pass out.”

“What? Why—“ Jim began to ask before he suddenly fell onto his knees with a sharp shout of pain as he felt his heart slam into a stop.

Unable to do anything more than watch, Sebastian just murmured to him gently as Jim fell onto the floor beside him, saying soothing words as he looked at him with fear in his eyes as he went through the transformation.

“You’re dying. You’re going to be okay. You’ll wake up to be like me, just let it happen, James,” he told him softly as the man crawled closer to him on the floor.

Before he could reach for him, he stopped with a shudder and a scream, writhing on puddle of blood on the floor, Sebastian’s blood leaking from his throat to add to the pool as it spread out around them. It soaked into his blonde hair, staining it crimson and making it sticky and wet, seeped into his skin. It coated them both and they bathed in it as Jim screamed.

Rebirth was a word that many of Sebastian’s kind – _their_ kind – liked to call it, but it wasn’t a birth at all. It was death, the only one that many of them would ever meet with.

Once Jim’s screaming faded out, Sebastian did his best to just wait. Wait until he awoke once more and could greet him with a smile, could thank him for giving him such a gift. Wait until he would, one day, curse him for burdening another soul with this life.

It took Jim three hours and twenty-one minutes to wake up, which had been much less time than Sebastian’s previous two sires. But unlike them, who had woken into this new life quietly with fear in their eyes, James Moriarty awoke with a snarl and a shout.

“You didn’t tell me,” he snapped at Sebastian, who was still trapped in his iron shackles, having been too weak to break them. He could only watch as Jim crawled towards him on his hands and knees, blood having stained his skin, soaked into his clothes, permeated the air in ways that would stick for days. “You didn’t say that it was going to _hurt_.”

“You didn’t let me,” Sebastian replied easily, even as Moriarty’s hands wrapped around his throat and he straddled him once more, snarling at him, his new fangs elongated and dangerous as he snapped.

“How _dare_ you,” he hissed, leaning in closer, eyes not moving from Sebastian’s as he squeezed at his throat. There was a flicker of thought in those eyes, most likely wondering if he could kill him by strangling him, or if that would only be a mild annoyance to someone like him. Like _them._

While Jim thought, Sebastian didn’t say a word, just shifted as much as he could to get the kink out of his back and he waited for Jim to process his thoughts. He watched as the different emotions passed over his face, twisted his expression this way and that, made his fingers tighten on his throat and then ease off. He watched him finally draw one hand away and press against his chest, eyes slipping shut and listening for his own heartbeat. Sebastian didn’t need to feel his pulse to hear it; strong and steady as it was, beating hard in his eardrums, matching that of his own.

They would each die down at some point between feeding, but the strength would always come back to them. As their lives moved from one place to the next, Jim would find quickly that blood was all that mattered. Blood was the only thing that mattered. Blood made them feel alive and whole, even in this world of death.

Warm, crimson-stained lips crashed against his own, hands finding the sides of his face and cupping the curve of his skull instead of pressing more bruises into his battered skin. This was his thanks, his acceptance of the life that Sebastian had just given to him.

He returned the kiss, letting his eyes slip shut and allowing himself to just feel. It had been entirely too easy to turn him, to allow himself that pleasure of bringing another soul into his own, intertwining them. Hope filled him, the one thing he had left; hope that Jim would stay this way, would stay with him, would keep them together as they ruled this city, this country, this world. Immortal in both name and existence.

As Jim drew back, Sebastian finally felt his wrists being freed from their shackles, angry marks wringing the circumference of his limbs. They would fade soon, but he would remember the significance of them long after they were gone.

The silence stretched between them as they both sat up again, Jim taking time to look around the room, which Sebastian was sure was his flat now that he had actually seen more than just the back wall and the ceiling of it.

“How have you changed?” he asked Jim, watching as the man licked his lips, finding the dried blood there and swiping it away.

“In every way,” he breathed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he breathed in deep, eyes sliding shut as he experienced each new sense as if it were the first time he had experienced anything at all.

“Tell me,” Sebastian coaxed, sliding closer, pressing their skin together to let him feel anew.

“I can breathe in an exact number of oxygen molecules, taste the components of blood on my tongue,” he began, eyes still closed until that moment, taking in the sight of everything once more, “I can see details that I hadn’t even thought to look for before. Feel the cells on your arm, hear something from miles away.”

His smile dropped and his eyes closed again as he focused on something in particular. Enraptured with him, Sebastian waited for him to continue, keeping his eyes on Jim’s face, tangling their fingers together and rubbing at his skin with the pad of his thumb.

“I can make it all stop, as well. I can hear nothing, see darkness, taste only my own saliva. Everything can expand and shrink as I see fit. Nothing is hidden from me,” he explained, opening his eyes once more and meeting Sebastian’s again. “Not even you.”

Long minutes passed and Sebastian had stopped breathing, unsure if Jim was accepting him as his own or denouncing him as an object that he no longer had a use for. All he could do was wait. Though he had been the one to turn him, to save him from the defective organ within his ribcage, he was still loyal to him. He answered to his orders, came when he called. Loyalty was something he would never toy with, especially not his own.

“You’re afraid,” Jim finally said, not looking away from Sebastian’s withering gaze, “You’re scared that I won’t have a use for you now.”

Even though he spoke the truth, he offered no immediate comfort or explanation as to why he shouldn’t feel that way. It seemed to him that Jim knew that he held such a power over Sebastian, age and experience notwithstanding.

“Has changing me made you different in any way? Taken any of your skills or loyalty away from you?” he finally asked, getting an almost immediate shake of his head in reply.

“No, sir. Not at all.”

Moriarty sat still, their fingers still entwined from when Sebastian had grabbed his hand, wanting to offer him the chance to feel again as well as keep their contact going. If anything had changed within him, it was that the hole left in his middle where his last sire had cut away from him had been filled. Jim felt like an extension of himself, blood of his blood, saved and remade with his own life.

Perhaps Jim saw this in his eyes, or perhaps he just knew. The dark gaze of his seemed to be even more perceptive now, after the transformation had come and gone, leaving him shiny and new and more deadly than ever. He could see through him, perhaps even literally. Sebastian would never be able to see through his eyes, their enhanced powers different and yet beautiful in their differences. He would always be curious as to how Jim would see the world from here on out, but he would never want to give up his own vision for someone else’s.

Whatever it was that Jim saw within him, however he saw him with his new sense of sight, he approved. Even without saying a word, Sebastian could tell. The grip Jim had on his hand got tighter and he pulled his hand closer with his own, nails digging half-moons into his skin.

“Then I suppose I will have a use for you until the end of time.”

Sebastian smiled toothy and wide, fangs elongated and full of sharp edges and the promise of danger. Because there was nothing more important than blood, and whether or not he had died or been reborn in the pool of blood that still sat around them, soaking into their skin and the wooden floorboards, staining everything it touched with the crimson hand of death; it didn’t change the fact that they had both fallen and risen from the same pool of blood.

“That won’t be a problem.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Bradycardia](http://www.webmd.com/heart-disease/tc/bradycardia-slow-heart-rate-overview) = Having bradycardia means that your heart beats very slowly.
> 
> [Aortic valve regurgitation](http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/aortic-valve-regurgitation/basics/definition/con-20022523) = Aortic valve regurgitation — or aortic regurgitation — is a condition that occurs when your heart's aortic valve doesn't close tightly. Aortic valve regurgitation allows some of the blood that was just pumped out of your heart's main pumping chamber (left ventricle) to leak back into it.


End file.
